


somewhere in this fate i lost control

by Princex_N



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Autism, Autistic Sarge, Autistic Wash, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: Where do you put your broken soldiers when you're done with them?





	somewhere in this fate i lost control

Wash has been out here for nearly twenty minutes, and he doesn’t think that it’s done much to help at all.

The only reason he had come outside in the first place was because of the way Caboose and Tucker have been arguing. Wash doesn’t know what started the argument – he’s very rarely privy to that information, making it nearly impossible to intervene – he just knows that they’ve been going at it for nearly two hours now. Tucker’s voice gets shriller the more frustrated he gets, and Caboose only gets louder to compensate (considering his usual volume, that’s quite a feat).

From what Wash has seen in the few weeks he’s been a part of their team, the arguments don’t _usually_ last long. Neither Caboose nor Tucker have particularly strong attention spans, and most of the time, one or both of them gets distracted by something immaturely funny that the other has said, and they go back to getting along as well as they ever do.

Usually, Wash doesn’t mind. He can put up with the noise for as long as it lasts, and then can go on with the rest of his day on slightly more stressed out than he already had been.

But right now, Wash can feel it under his skin like bugs and he grits his teeth and has to resist the urge to slam his head against the outer wall of the base.

He doesn’t know why it’s so much worse today. Sure, he hasn’t gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep over the past few days, and he’s pretty sure that he’d forgotten to eat this morning, and the canyon is unusually hot today, and Caboose and Tucker have been arguing far more than usual, but that doesn’t…

On second thought, maybe Wash should have been able to see this coming.

He sits down hard in the dirt and tries to breathe. It’s not the first time he’s had to put up with noise, and it won’t be the last, he should be better at dealing with it. He’s not in the hospital anymore; he’s put-together enough to know how to cope with things again. It shouldn’t be this bad.

The Rockslide base is relatively big, for a sim-trooper training ground; it should be relatively easy for Wash to get far enough away from the Blue Base that he doesn’t have to listen to them anymore. It _should_ be, at least, but the quiet openness of the space makes him more anxious than the sound does. There are undoubtedly a few decent places to hide out (Wash has taken note of almost all of them, on his first perimeter check the hour after they’d parked the Warthog), but the mere thought of leaving the relative shelter of the base makes him feel like a fish in a barrel, like he’s just asking to tempt luck and get shot in the head.

He suddenly hates the oppressive presence of his helmet and struggles a little with the vulnerability that will come with removing it. On one hand, the helmet feels like it’s strangling him (the feel of it surrounding him and the seal around his neck, over his _implants_ ). On the other, he’d be wide open for a fatal shot if he removed it. He’s starting to wonder if he wouldn’t mind the latter outcome right now. The pain, at least, would be something to anchor him.

Eventually he gives up, wrestles it off and winds up throwing it angrily away from him, as far as he can manage. Part of him hopes that he hasn’t just broken another helmet, especially since this one wasn’t his to begin with. Most of him is busy fighting the urge to remove the rest of his armor.

He sits, stiff and quiet, trying to force this feeling back away from him because he doesn’t want to do this, he’s too tired. All these years of desperate running and fighting, and for what? To be too tired to even stave off a meltdown?

In the end, it hits all at once.

One second, he’s sitting still and counting out his breaths carefully, the next he’s slamming his head back against the wall and clumsily wrestling off pieces of armor, scratching-hitting-biting at any part of himself that he can reach, trying to make it all go away.

He’s too tired. It’s too much. He bites his teeth down on a scream and strangles it into a groan.

It’s too much. He’s too tired. He’s been in this war too long but there’s no other place in the entire universe for him to go.

Where do you put your broken soldiers when you’re done with them?

There’s the sound of someone’s voice, making some idle comment, and the careful feeling of a palm at the back of his aching damp skull, keeping him from hitting the wall anymore. It doesn’t hold him in place – just sits there and blocks the sharp crack of bone against cement.

Wash chokes back another scream.

He’s waiting for it. None of the guards at the prison have ever put up with him for long. He was violent, insubordinate, resisting; a danger to himself and others. They descended into his cell with armored feet and batons and handcuffs and dealt more damage to him than Wash could ever do to himself. Bruises and split skin and a dislocated shoulder from an attempt at restraints gone wrong.

He’s waiting for it, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, there is an uncharacteristically quiet gruff voice speaking words Wash can’t sort through yet, a careful distance between two bodies, and an unobtrusive hand keeping him from hurting himself any further.

Wash rocks forward, buries his face in his legs, and screams.

There are no answering curses and shouts from other prisoners, the bars to his cell do not creak agonizingly open, no one grabs his wrists to wrench them behind his back because Wash is no longer in prison. He’s in Rockslide(?), because a group of idiot sim-troopers looked at him and saw something worth saving. He can feel a warm breeze skittering over his skin and the heat from the sun beating down against the back of his neck.

It’s too much, he’s too tired, but at least he’s free.

He leans back against the wall and slumps there, too tired to keep moving.

His ribs have yet to fully heal, and Wash doubts that his hitting did himself any favors in that department. His concussion _had_ healed, but Wash is almost 80% sure he’s just given himself another one. He knows for certain that he’s bleeding, he can taste it in the back of his throat and feel it dripping over the worn metal of his implants. Overall, he supposes it could have been worse.

“Thanks,” he rasps tiredly. The only thing he can manage.

Sarge doesn’t answer, just grunts and moves his hand back out of Wash’s space.

There are more things that Wash could say. Should say. _Thanks for keeping me from cracking my skull open again, Thanks for not trying to pin me down, Thanks for not getting any of the others, Thanks for not making it worse_ , but he doesn’t think he has the words for any of that. He hopes that the word he did manage to say covers enough of it for him.

There’s a moment’s hesitation before Sarge pulls himself up to his feet, and a longer one after that. Wash is waiting for some kind of berating for leaving himself vulnerable to the enemy or being a Blue or something along those lines, so the shock rocks him to the core when he feels a hesitant hand ruffling his bleached-out hair.

“Try not to let it get that bad again,” Sarge says, because he’s not done surprising Wash just yet. It takes a little longer than it should for Wash to realize that the older man is waiting for a response, standing there while Wash stares up at him, somewhat awestruck, but Wash puts the pieces together eventually. Nods sharply and offers up a weak salute to make up for his current lack of words.

Sarge nods back and turns to go back to his own base, but not before Wash hears him say, “If those bastard Blues can’t help you next time, come to Red Base, and I will.”

Wash’s hand raps against his chest-plate with more energy than is probably necessary, but he hasn’t felt this warm in a while. The emotion has to go _somewhere_ , right?

**Author's Note:**

> i just really love the idea of wash and sarge hanging out lmao
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


End file.
